


Holy Palmer's Kiss

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Prayer, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, general silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley, being extra, occasionally appeals upwards over minor inconveniences.Aziraphale shows him how it's done.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 107





	Holy Palmer's Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I apologise if any of you had added my works to collections, but I've removed them from all collections due to learning more about how the site works. Sorry, and thank you to everyone who'd added them to collections. I'm told you can collect bookmarks instead so that might be something you'd like to do.
> 
> Secondly, this is just a bit of silliness but I hope you enjoy it! :)

Crowley isn't a very good demon. He knows this. So it stands to reason that, on occasion, he has been known to appeal upwards for help.

He's also extremely dramatic, so more often than not, he appeals upwards over _extremely minor inconveniences._ Even just since the apocalypse didn't happen, mere weeks ago, he has appealed upwards over - in no particular order - a stubbed toe, the leaky gutter of the shop three down from Aziraphale's, his favourite character leaving _Coronation Street,_ and, of course, the tiny problem of his being in love with an angel.

It's not a new habit; even before the world failed to end, Crowley would often catch himself grumbling up at a God he knew would never listen, and the angels that served under Her.

"If you ever loved me, God," he'd mutter, sitting in his car and waiting for a bridge to be lowered so he could cross it, "you'd get me out of this traffic jam."

"I was one of you once," he'd groan, trying to pass unnoticed through a crowd, "if any of you angelic bastards ever held a shred of fellow feeling for me, I'm cashing it in now - just get all these tourists to _walk at a reasonable speed-"_

"If this is your idea of a joke, Mother, it's not funny." This was his most common refrain, over the centuries. "I know cruelty to demons is all the rage, but this- if I ever meant _anything_ to you, please stop this. Fix it. Make me not love him. It hurts too much."

It's always been _make me not love him_ , of course, because he would never want anyone to make Aziraphale love him back. He knows Aziraphale never will, and he'd never wish such a horrible thing on him, anyway. He never wants Aziraphale to feel the torturous longing that threatens to overwhelm Crowley whenever he looks at the angel. Besides, Crowley is a demon. He's not supposed to love; he's not supposed to be capable of it. _Fix it,_ he begs the Almighty over the centuries, _make me a proper demon, spare me this torment._

And then, after he's delivered the Antichrist, after the first few desperately miserable months of working with Aziraphale _every_ _day_ to raise Warlock, he stops asking so often. Loving Aziraphale is just a part of who he is now, whether that's right or wrong, and he can live with it most of the time. He'll just never tell Aziraphale, and they'll be fine.

And they are fine. They have a few squabbles, on the way to the end of the world, and Crowley's heart breaks again and again before it's utterly destroyed in a fire and restored in a pub. And when it's all over, when the dust has settled, they're on their own side. Closer than ever. In fact, they think nothing of walking into one another’s homes whenever they want a bit of company, these days. Crowley, of course, has always been in and out of the bookshop, because it’s a shop, but now Aziraphale pops round to his flat every so often and just strolls right in.

Crowley still hasn’t adjusted to that, yet. He’s got his TV turned up pretty loud and is grumbling vaguely Godwards.

“I’m just saying, one more series of _The Good Place_. Wouldn’t hurt, would it? Not like the Fall, which You should absolutely feel bad about, by the way, because You were supposed to love us and You dropped us on our heads in a lake of boiling brimstone. But that’s not the point, I’m just saying that if You ever loved me, You’d give me another series of philosophy and nonsense. Just give me th-”

“Crowley? Oh, there you are!” Aziraphale is standing right behind him, and Crowley launches the TV remote clear across the room in his hurry to sit up.

“Angel! I didn’t hear y-” He realises, suddenly, that he should be more worried about what _Aziraphale_ has heard. “Er-”

“Were you just talking to Her?”

“Oh. Er. N- well. That’d be a bit of a stupid thing for a demon to do.”

“But you were, weren’t you? Oh, but- do you take constructive criticism, dear?”

“More than She does,” Crowley grouses, and Aziraphale gallantly ignores him in favour of grabbing his hands.

Crowley’s brain shorts out for a second, and by the time he wrangles it back into some semblance of working order, Aziraphale is halfway through a sentence.

“-naturally you don’t know, it was after you Fell, but the communications protocol has changed somewhat since the Beginning.”

“Ngk,” Crowley tells him, rather eloquently, in his opinion, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Still, Shakespeare had the general gist of it. _Romeo and Juliet-_ ”

“Prefer the funny ones, ange-”

“ _Palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss,”_ Aziraphale intones solemnly, and presses Crowley’s hands together between his own.

_“Heaven speaking, how may I direct your call-?”_

Crowley wrenches his hands apart in shock, and Aziraphale’s smile falters.

“I’m sorry, Crowley, shouldn’t I-?”

“Do you mean to tell me that all these years She just _wasn’t getting my calls?”_

“Er. Well, I can’t speak for the Almighty, but it’s possible that was the problem. Why did you stop?”

“I don’t- I didn’t- I never _expected_ Her to hear- I-”

“Oh, I am sorry, Crowley. I thought it might be helpful to know-”

“No, it. It is. I just. I’m not… I’m not ready for that. Not yet, anyway. But… thank you, angel.”

“Oh. Well, of course.” Aziraphale smiles bashfully. “What were you talking to Her about, anyway?”

“Oh, just the telly. Ranting at God seems a bit more demonically appropriate than talking to myself, you know.”

“Ah.” 

Aziraphale is still holding his hands, Crowley realises abruptly, and he doesn’t want him to let go.

“I’d rather talk to you, anyway.”

“Oh, well, happy to oblige.”

Crowley won’t be able to explain his own sudden boldness, later. Perhaps it’s divine inspiration, or the fact that Aziraphale is holding his hands and looking at him with such _warmth_ , or simply that Heaven and Hell are leaving them to their own devices. Perhaps it’s because _Heaven itself_ just took Crowley’s call, and nothing seems impossible when you keep that in mind. Perhaps it’s just time.

“Palm-to-palm to talk to God, yeah? So what do I press together to talk to you?” Aziraphale’s brow creases in confusion; yeah, that had sounded smoother in Crowley’s head. Still, he’s committed to it now. “How about lips?”

“I think it’d be hard to talk to _anyone_ with your lips pressed together,” Aziraphale tells him sensibly, and then he seems to put two and two together. “Or- are you suggesting- your lips to mine?”

“Er.” Crowley’s throat is dry and his stomach feels as though it’s dropped into his boots. “Yeah, probably a terrible idea-”

“It’s not.” Aziraphale is, unbelievably, _still_ holding his hands. “It’s- but Crowley, I- what would you be _saying_ , if you pressed your lips to mine?”

“You know,” Crowley insists, “you must know. Must have known for ages.”

“I’d like to be sure. Because if I kissed _you_ -”

“Did we say _kiss-_?”

“-I’d be saying _I love you_. I’d just like to be absolutely sure we’re on the same page.”

“I- if-” Aziraphale’s hands are in his, and Aziraphale is talking about love, and if he can’t say it now, when can he? “Yeah. If we kissed… that’s what I’d mean.”

Aziraphale leans in, moving slowly as if trying not to startle a frightened animal, and Crowley has never _felt_ more like a frightened animal. He has dreamed of this - of being allowed to express his feelings, of Aziraphale loving him back - for so long that the reality feels too fragile to hold. If he allows himself to move forward, to close the gap, who’s to say the whole world won’t shatter?

He does it anyway. Forget _holy palmer’s kiss_ ; he is kissing the angel he has loved for all of time, and his beloved is kissing back. _I love you_ , their shared prayer to one another, the only one Crowley thinks he’ll need for some time.

When they break apart, Aziraphale’s eyes are shining.

“Can we- I mean- I think it’s rather the done thing to do that more than once-”

“I love you,” Crowley finally breathes aloud, and drags Aziraphale back in before he can speak. They have new ways to communicate now, and Crowley’s keen to explore them before they return to words.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind practicing their new language.


End file.
